by Densie Webb
No control.
Chapter 43
Vincent
As I open the door, I spot the crinkled paper on the kitchen countertop. It’s Nicholas’ handwriting. I fear what it will say as I stare at the paper and pour myself a double scotch, down it quickly and pour another. I set my glass on the counter next to the note and pick it up—slowly. Nicholas’ handwriting has always been terrible, barely legible. It almost makes me smile.
Well, mate, you knew this was coming. I’ve fallen off the wagon again, backslid, lost control. I don’t want you to have to witness my demise or for me to muck up your plans with Andie. I’m leaving to forge an existence on my own. Thank you for being my best mate, my mentor, my connection to my remaining humanity all these years. But that humanity has abandoned me. I admire your inner strength and resolve, which I clearly lack. I know you are perfectly capable of managing the florist shop on your own. Have you thought about what comes next? An art gallery in Williamsburg, perhaps? Whatever you choose, I wish you luck and I hope you have found happiness and fulfillment once again with Andie.
I will miss you, mate.
Nicholas
I can’t believe it has come to this. My friend, my companion for nearly a century is gone. Am I to blame? Have I been so immersed in my situation with Andie that I haven’t been there for him when he most needed my advice and counsel?
I take my phone from my jacket pocket and dial his number. He doesn’t answer, but he still has service; it’s the same message. “You called, so you know this is Nicholas, mate. Leave a message, but I doubt I’ll call back.” His laughter trails off before the beep.
“Nicholas don’t be foolish. Please call me back. I can help you.”
I rush upstairs to his apartment. Maybe he dropped off the note before packing up. “Nicholas?” I say as I open his door. Everything looks the same, even the blanket on the sofa he never got around to replacing.
I half expect him to stroll in the door and say, “Vincent, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve gotten myself into some deep shite, mate. I need your help.” But it’s quiet. The bedroom door is open and as I walk in, the emptiness is palpable. He’s taken few of his belongings, but most of his clothes are gone, the empty hangers like skeletons rattling in the closet, proof that he has no plans to return.
I sit on the edge of the bed and spot his yellowed engagement announcement, ripped to shreds, sprinkled over the sheets like confetti. I try to envision tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that, without Nicholas. Worry will fill my nights—not knowing where he is or if tomorrow’s headlines will announce a trail of death he’s left in his wake.
I long ago lost everyone who could have shared my human memories. Now I’m losing the only one who could share the memories of what has happened since. Without Nicholas, everything that has happened over the last hundred years will be nothing more than a collection of meaningless, random events. We walked through history together, as technological advances developed faster than we could comprehend the change; as monuments were built and destroyed; we’ve witnessed great loves, deep hatred. And war. We have known war.
Few are left to remember the horrors of the World Wars, but Nicholas shared those indelible memories with me. During World War II, concentration camps dotted the landscape and multiplied, as extermination rituals became ever more efficient. It was not a good time to be different in any way, and our unique differences were more likely than ever to draw unwanted attention.
We were singled out more than once, because of our accents and their sheer numbers made it impossible to control the officers, erase their memories of us and escape. Even if we had been able to overpower them all, there would have been witnesses. If we ran, we would be shot and the lack of effect from their bullets would have revealed what we were.
If we had allowed them to transfer us to one of the camps, Nicholas and I would have survived the lack of food, the unsanitary conditions, the freezing temperatures, the beatings, the forced labor, the bullets, even the gas chambers, but the ovens would have done us in, so we carefully planned our escape from Berlin, breaking our vow not to kill and, without regret, left a trail of broken Schutzstaffel soldiers and officers, before setting sail for the States.
The trip was interminable. Children wailed, mothers prayed and fathers stood by helpless, unable to protect their families from the truth of what had happened or the worry of what might happen when the ship finally reached Ellis Island.
Disease on the ship spread unchecked like a deep-rooted kudzu vine, invading every passenger’s life. The saddest day of the voyage was when we were forced to witness the slow, painful death of a young boy. He looked the age of my Phillipe. The rattling in his chest was haunting. The sounds of seasickness that ran constantly in the background were drowned out by his mother’s wails. She looked at me with such grief. Grief with which I had an intimate relationship.
“He’s dying,” she said, as if she were asking for help. I’m certain that if I had offered to change him, to have him become a Kindred, she would have jumped at the chance to have her little boy by her side. But, if he were hungry, he would have turned on his own mother.
“I’m truly sorry.” No words could adequately convey the deep sorrow I felt for her. And for her son. The angry waves crashed against the bow of the ship. Water surrounded us. It felt impossible that we would ever reach terra firma.
It was difficult to satisfy our thirst while at sea. The ship was teaming with humanity, but there were no dark alleys and few dark spaces to take advantage of. We had heard of others like us, who were discovered, beheaded by frightened passengers and thrown overboard.
More than once we resorted to ship rats, which were plentiful, but while they prevented starvation, they barely controlled the craving. By the time we landed, we could think of nothing but quenching our thirst. We quickly discovered it was easier than we could have ever imagined on the densely populated island of Manhattan.
We thought we would be okay.
We have spoken of that trip often, shared memories, regrets, close calls of being discovered. While language, mannerisms, clothes, housing, modes of transportation have changed over the decades, people remain essentially the same. But who will I share those observations with now? Who will Nicholas create new memories with—a merciless Kindred, a killing partner?
No. I can’t accept that as his fate.
Chapter 44
Andie
I catch the express train downtown, wondering what I missed yesterday at the office. And if I still have a job. More important, how Peter is doing. I spot an empty seat and, in a winning game of musical chairs, I grab it. Across from me is a couple holding hands. They look fortysomething—about the age my parents were when they died.
They’re dressed like they have enough money, but not too much. He’s just starting to gray around the temples. I imagine they have two kids, the oldest one, a boy, is in high school and they’re saving for his college, but right now they’re splurging on a trip to New York. Just the two of them.
He leans over to whisper something in her ear. She laughs and hits his arm as a reprimand, likely an off-color comment. She has a beautiful smile. He squeezes her hand tighter. At the next stop, they stand up, he places his hand in the small of her back. As they leave, they’re talking animatedly and I imagine they’re hurrying to do some sightseeing before they go to the five-star restaurant they’ve carefully chosen for lunch.
That knot in the pit of my stomach tells me that can never be Vincent and me. When I’m forty-something with wrinkles starting in earnest and gray hair sprouting everywhere, he’ll still be twenty-something and just as beautiful as he is today. People will think he’s my child, instead of my lover. This is the future I’m committing myself to.
I walk into the office and say good morning to Shirley before beelining to Peter’s office. The door is closed again, so I knock. “Peter, it’s Andie.”
I barely hear him say, “Come in.”
H
e’s standing in front of the window, staring at the busy street below. He turns when I close the door behind me. “Where the hell were you yesterday? I called like twenty times. This isn’t a drop-in-whenever-you-feel-like-it gig.”
I don’t recognize the vitriol in his voice, but I understand the source.
“I’m so sorry, Peter. Yesterday was—well, it was impossible for me to make it in. I’ll make it up to you today.”
“Is it fair to assume it has something to do with your gorgeous ex—that is, if he’s still an ex.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is,” he says, his voice flat, before switching emotional gears. “So, I have some news.” He turns to the window again. “I got some more test results back.”
I clasp my hands together and press them to my lips as if reciting a prayer. Maybe his diagnosis was a mistake. Maybe it’s not as bad as he originally thought. Maybe he’ll live to find another love.
“And?” I’m already deciding where we’ll go to celebrate.
He turns to face me, red-eyed and somber. “It’s a more aggressive form than they thought. This will be my last week at work.”
My tears come without warning and I quickly wipe them away. It’s self-indulgent and unbelievably selfish for me to subject him to my own fragile emotional state.
“Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.” I step closer and wrap my arms around him. Small comfort, but it’s all I have to offer. “What did they say?”
“The MRI showed it had spread more than they thought. Chemo isn’t an option any more. Basically, I’ll be six feet under in a couple of months. At most.”
I’m crying again. No, I’m sobbing. This is too much. My emotional sponge is saturated. I’m overcome with the all-consuming unfairness of life that has settled into my bones. Who the hell decided that Peter doesn’t deserve happiness? Why is his life being cut short, while Vincent’s eternal existence was forced on him? Who is it that tells fate where it’s supposed to go?
“But there is a silver lining,” he says into my hair.
I back up. “Please, tell me.”
Zach called last night. He heard about my…situation…through friends and he’s coming home. He wants to take care of me.” He blinks quickly and his voice cracks, “So I don’t have to move into hospice.”
“Good, good,” I say as I frantically nod my head.
“And, he’s going to take Popeye and Olive Oyl after I’m gone. They’ll love him. It’s such a relief to know they’ll be taken care of.” He stops for a second and takes a breath. “He says he never stopped loving me. I was like, WTF? We could have been together all this time?”
“I’d love to meet Zach sometime.”
“Well, ‘sometime’ will have to be pretty soon.” He laughs, but I can’t laugh along.
Chapter 45
Vincent
On my way to Andie’s office, I see Nicholas’ face on every stranger that passes on the street. I don’t know if he’s left New York, if he’s left the country, if he’s searching for a group of like-minded Kindred. I remember so clearly the desperation in his face the day I met him and the blessed relief that washed over him when he learned there was another way to feed, another way to survive.
Now, he’s lost again. To me, to himself. I dial his number and I get his voice message again. My sadness threatens to smother me. But I remind myself that I’m on my way to Andie.
I enter the lobby of her building, almost crashing into Peter. He’s looking right through me as he whisks past and through the revolving doors. He stops on the sidewalk in front of the building and anxiously looks both ways. Another man, a head taller, slimmer, with long red hair tied in a bun on the top of his head, comes running up to him from behind and engulfs him in a hug, nearly knocking them both to the sidewalk. Peter turns around and begins to cry. They kiss with an urgency that suggests loving relief and walk away together, hand in hand.
As I turn back to the lobby, Andie steps off the elevator. She hurries to me and crushes herself against me. I kiss the top of her head. “What is it, ma chérie?”
She looks up at me. “It’s Peter. He’s dying.”
The scene I just witnessed is now crystal clear. “I’m so sorry,” I say as I stroke her hair.
“Another man met him outside, perhaps his partner?”
She sighs in relief. “Oh good. That must have been Zach. They had split, but he’s back to take care of Peter.”
She takes a step back, straightens her purse on her shoulder and gathers her hair, twisting it into a temporary top knot. Sadness clouds her beautiful face. “So, I could really use that drink right about now.”
“Of course. Where to?”
“I saw a place around the corner,” she says. “I’m sure it has plenty of scotch and dirty martinis.”
Once inside, the place is like many of the hundreds of tiny bars dotting the city. Purposefully dark. Like a casino, there’s no way to know the time without looking at a clock, and there is none. It smells of damp cement and cheap bourbon. Only a handful of people occupy the stools at the bar.
Andie slides into the red Naugahyde booth first and I follow, sitting as close to her as possible. She lays her head on my shoulder and I motion to the barmaid, who quickly comes to take our order.
“Chivas on the rocks and a—” I turn to Andie. “Dirty martini, extra olives?” She smiles and nods.
Before the waitress turns to the people beckoning her from a table across the room, I ask Andie, “Would you like something to eat?”
She hesitates. “I’m actually starving. I didn’t get a chance to eat all day. But you sure it doesn’t bother you?”
“Not tempted, even a little.”
The well-rounded waitress smiles. “Dieting, huh? Sounds like you have willpower of steel. Wish I could say the same.”
“So, what’ll it be?” she asks Andie.
She quickly scans the menu, laminated into the tabletop. “Veggie burger, no onions, please, and fries.”
She doesn’t write it down and she’s looking off into space as she recites it to herself. Her method doesn’t foster faith that she’ll get it right. She walks toward a table, where three of the six people seated there are still waving frantically to get her attention.
“I’ve always been curious about what a burger would taste like,” I say. She looks at me, questioning. “Not tempted, just curious.” She nods.
“I remember flavors—some better than others. Most of all, I remember my mother’s cooking. Back then, cooking was much more labor intensive. She spent a large portion of her days in the kitchen with our cook preparing the next meal. I remember the smell of the wood-burning stove and the tastes of freshly baked bread, lentil soup with rosemary, fresh apples picked from the trees on our land. And, as a young man, picnics with perfect pairings of cheese and wine. I liken it to being born with sight and then going blind. You have a vague memory of what things look like, but the colors fade with time.”
“That makes me so sad.”
“Excuse me.” I recognize his voice immediately. I shift my gaze in his direction. Gus is hovering. I’ve waited anxiously to hear from him, to get the cure, but not with Andie by my side.
My fists clench as he casually slides into the other side of the booth.
He stops and looks at Andie, then at me, raises his eyebrows.
“She knows what I am,” I say, my voice a pale whisper.
He’s looking at her like she’s a pet he wants to put on a leash and take for a very long walk. He laughs and he doesn’t look like he plans on leaving anytime soon as he leans forward, this time studying Andie’s face carefully. She puts her hand on my thigh and squeezes.
“So you’ve told her about my proposition?”
“What proposition?” she asks, turning to me.
I glare at Gus. “Not here. Not now.”
“You haven’t told her? I’m shocked, Vincent.” He nods in her direction. “I’m sure Andie, here, would love to know what’s at
stake.” He gives Andie another hungry look, stands and leans in. I can smell the blood on his breath. “I wouldn’t dally with making your decision if I were you. I’ll give you one more week to decide before I withdraw my offer and, well, as much as I hate to say this, Vincent, there will be consequences.”
He slowly rises, tainting the air, and with a sleazy smile, he says, “I will see you at the Black Orchid. I hope you will have good news for me.” He then turns to Andie and says, “Such a pleasure to meet you Ms. Rogé,” before slithering over to the bar.
We are silent for a minute or two before Andie lifts herself up, looks over the back of the booth to make sure he’s gone, slides back down and whispers, “That was bizarre. Who was that kid and how did he know my name? And what kind of offer is he talking about? What consequences?”
Do I tell Andie of his insatiable blood lust, that he was a master of temptation, that I came so close to being seduced by his evil, or that he is tempting me now with something quite different, piggybacking his temptation with a threat?
The waitress brings our drinks and Andie’s food. “So, I guess you’re not going to tell me?”
“Now is not the time.”
“But he was, you know, like you and Nicholas?”
I nod.
She takes a single bite and sets it back down on her plate. She says nothing, takes a few sips from her drink, sets the glass on the table, fishes out an olive and slips it on her tongue, chewing slowly. “I want to ask you something else,” she says finally.
“Yes?”
“So, I know you were changed, someone changed Nicholas, and someone had to change that creepy kid who was just here. But could you change someone—if you wanted to?”
“The answer is no, Andie.”
“You can’t?”
“I won’t. I love you just as you are.”
“Have you ever done it?”
I answer honestly. “Before I met Nicholas, I was tempted to, for companionship, but it would have been far too selfish.”
“But you could if you wanted to?”
